Ablaze
by Cerridwen7777
Summary: In which Sam and Dean investigate a fiery haunting.  Rated for language, violence and gore.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, again. Thought you were rid of me, eh? Not likely. This story is based on a real haunting, with some of the details changed, of course. It does follow on the events of Running, so Dean is still injured, and Sam is still in mother-mode. As always, the boys and their car don't belong to me. Please review, and I answer all reviews at my website. Onward!**

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The purring rumble of the Impala ceased as Sam cut off the engine. He laid a hand on his neck and tried to squeeze out the crick that had settled there after a long, ceaseless drive, but it would take more like a vice-grip to do that. Dean was sacked out in the passenger seat, eyes hidden by his sunglasses. He was still a bit peaky from his recent knife wound, though he wouldn't admit it. He claimed that he was worn out from all the sponge baths he had received in the hospital, so he didn't argue when Sam offered to drive. He dropped off to sleep almost immediately, and did not wake during the five-hour trip. 

Sam ducked his head to look out the windshield at the motel before him. Built of dingy white brick and painted red metal, it consisted of a circle of long, barracks-style arms situated around a central hub, the office. A blinking, half-burnt-out neon sign proclaimed _Snowflake Motel_. Sam supposed that viewed from above the motel might possibly resemble a snowflake. But from the ground it just looked like a dive.

Dean gave a little snorting moan and peeked out from under his glasses. "We here?" he mumbled, drawing a hand over his mouth. He squinted at the motel and gave a groan. "Can't we ever stay at a Holiday Inn?"

"Only if you want to spend three extra hours at the poker table and live on ramen noodles for a week," replied Sam, opening the door and unfolding himself from the car. Dean hauled himself out of the passenger side, letting out a little grunt of pain but ignoring Sam's concerned glance.

"Simmer down, Florence Nightingale," mumbled Dean, shrugging deeper into his coat, trying to ward off the fall's chill. "Let's go see how lusciously this place is appointed." Together they walked up to the office. The "lawn" surrounding the pothole-filled parking lot was mostly dirt and weeds, with the occasional cigarette butt for color. Sam couldn't suppress a smirk at the rusted plaque that was bolted to the wall, proclaiming that Frank Lloyd Wright had designed the place_. If he did, he must have been drunk at the time_, Sam thought.

Dean pulled open the flyspecked front door and gestured to Sam. "After you, princess." Sam gave Dean a surreptitious obscene gesture, which Dean met with a toothy grin.

A mousy-haired clerk lounged behind the counter, working her piece of gum like it was going to get away, open-mouthed and loudly. She glanced up at hearing the door, then did a comical double take and looked the brothers up and down. "Hi," she drawled, a slow grin revealing a lovely gray tooth front and center in her mouth. "You need a room?" She fixed Sam with what he assumed was supposed to be a sultry look and ran her finger over her nametag. Mandi.

"Yeah. Two singles, please." Dean's voice was rich with amusement, and when the clerk turned to dig out a room key for them, he jabbed his elbow into Sam's ribs and gave a broad wink. He snapped back to casual mode as the clerk turned back around and handed them a pair of keys on large, brass tags.

"So what are ya'll doin' here? In town for the festival, are ya?" asked Mandi, twirling her hair around her finger. She was hitting every flirting technique in the book, one after the other. If she kept it up her ovaries were going to explode.

"We're reporters," replied Dean, a smile still playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Oh gawd, not the human torch, again." Disgust twisted Mandi's face and she rolled her eyes dramatically. "I'm so tired of hearin' about it."

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. "Well, maybe if you tell us what you've heard, we can quote you in the story," offered Sam. "You ever been in the newspaper, Mandi?" At the sound of his voice, Mandi's eyes lit up and another goofy grin split her face.

"No," she tittered. "Okay, well, what _I _heard is that this new couple moved into the Santirelli house, right? The wife goes to work one day two weeks ago, and her husband stays home sick. When she gets home that night, she finds him in the bed, burnt to a crisp." Mandi was practically salivating at this point, punctuating her monologue with dramatic gestures and gum-snaps. "The bed is completely trashed, like the whole thing had been on fire, but there's no damage anywhere else in the house, no smoke damage, nothing." She leaned forward on the counter, showing an ample amount of cleavage, and lowered her voice. "_I _think it's spontaneous combustion."

Dean gave an eye roll of his own, but luckily Mandi was busy staring at Sam. "Has anyone called Art Bell?"

"Who?" Mandi's nose crinkled up in confusion.

"Nevermind." Dean shook his head slightly. "So is anybody still staying at the house?"

With a look that intimated that she was annoyed at being interrupted from leering at Sam, Mandi shook her head. "The wife moved back down south to be with her folks. Nobody there now but the cops."

Sam smiled at her and said, "Thank you for talking with us, Mandi. We'll probably be back to take some notes for the story a little later. But can you give us the address of the house? We'd like to go take some pictures." Mandi scribbled down an address and phone number on a hotel notepad and handed it to Sam, making sure to brush his hand with hers as she did.

"I thought you said no one was there. What's with the phone number?" asked Dean, glancing at the note.

"Who said it was a phone number for the house?" purred Mandi, eyes on Sam. Dean, unable to suppress it any longer, turned and walked out of the office, one hand on his abdomen to stop himself bursting his stitches as he howled with laughter. Sam crammed the address into his pocket and followed his brother, grinding his teeth.

By the time Sam caught up, Dean was already in the room, surveying the dim interior with a mixture of resignation and dismay. "The Holiday Inn is sounding better and better, Sammy," he said as Sam walked in.

Sam dropped his duffel on the floor and poked his head into the bathroom, then made a face. "I need a shower like nobody's business, but I'm afraid they haven't invented vaccines for the diseases in that bathroom."

"Figure we can grab a couple hours of sleep, get some dinner, then hit the house after midnight. Don't figure that the cops will be keeping a round-the-clock watch after two weeks time." Dean gingerly shucked his coat off and placed it on the scuffed-up dresser. "Unless you want to make a date, there, Casanova." Sam's only reply was a pair of middle fingers, and Dean barked a laugh. "Gotcha. Playin' hard to get."

And Sam found himself wondering why he hadn't just left Dean at the hospital in the first place.


	2. Chapter 2

**Meh. I'm not happy with this chapter. Exposition is a bitch. Don't worry, there is whumpage to come, just gotta get there. Please review, and as always, all reviews are answered at my blog. Nobody belongs to me, please don't sue me. Shanks.**

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The sun had gone down over the lake, bathing the small-town streets in a pinky-golden glow. The festival that Mandi had mentioned turned out to be a small street fair, mostly fried food and beer tents, not to mention numerous drunken hill-billies, so Sam and Dean decided to forgo it. Not until after Dean pointed out several clowns, though. They found a tiny Chinese restaurant and settled in with the laptop and several local newspapers, as well as a police report that Sam had liberated from the local PD.

"Okay, so April Ko comes home and finds her husband Keith incinerated. No ignition source was found, no smoke damage to the house. Autopsy says he died from smoke inhalation and thermal burns. Final report believes that he fell asleep smoking in bed." Sam tossed down the sheaf of papers with a disgusted sound. "Small town police work, man. Unbelievable."

Dean ignored Sam, instead tucking into his meal with the élan of a man long starving. "What do you expect? It's not like they see this stuff every day," he said around a mouthful of chicken. "Besides, that's what we're here for. And bad police work has saved our asses plenty of times."

"As far as any information I've found thus far, there's no mention of a haunt or any weird things going on at the house. Just Mister Crispy." Sam scratched at his jaw, annoyed at not having been able to shave in the Bathroom of Plague.

One of the cooks wandered out from behind the counter, a wiry young Asian man with a goatee, if the straggly hairs could be called that. "So you guys are here about the Santirelli house?"

"Eavesdrop much?" asked Dean drily, dipping a wonton into some sauce and slopping half of that down his chin.

The cook shrugged, jerked his head toward the street. "Nah. It's just that I used to deliver there a lot. Weird place."

That comment made Dean set down his chopsticks and stare with interest at the cook. "How so?"

"Well, first of all, Mister Ko, the dead guy? Total dick. The wife never said anything, just put her head down and paid for the meal, while he sat there with his feet up. I saw her with black eyes a couple of times. She acted like a whipped dog, most of the times that I delivered there."

"Okay, that's sick but not necessarily weird," interjected Sam.

"Yeah. But it's the people that _used_ to live there that creeped me out. And the house still does." The chef gave an exaggerated shiver. "Total freak-show." Sam and Dean just stared at him, waiting for him to continue. The young man, clearly enjoying his audience, waited for a pregnant moment before going on. "So there was this couple, right? They met in a mental hospital and fell in love. Weird enough, right? So then they married when they got out. The guy, Jackson Santirelli, inherited the house from his father on the condition that he just stay there and not cause trouble, not embarrass the family. Old money, you know, very snooty. So Jackson and Molly, the wife, they live in the house for a few years, lots of screaming, lots of meltdowns. The cops were out there constantly."

"So lots of domestic disturbances then. Happens to lots of people," mumbled Dean, returning his attention to his meal. Sam gave him an impatient look.

"That's not the weird part." The cook lowered his voice conspiratorially. "About six years ago, people stopped seeing Molly. Jackson said that she left him, went to live with another guy down in Georgia. But nobody can confirm the story. The cops investigate, 'cause they think that Jackson offed her, but there's no proof. Eventually, the family ends up having him committed back to the mental hospital because he is totally out of control. They try to sell the house, but no matter how many people look at it, nobody ever buys. They'll start to close, and then they back out. The house was empty for almost the full six years, until this new couple moved in."

"And they were here for what, two weeks?" Sam asked.

"Yep. And now this." The cook leaned down toward the table, eyes serious. "There's somethin' wrong in that house, man. You walk by there and you'll feel it, I'm tellin' you." With that, he knocked twice on the wooden table with his knuckles, and turned to wander back toward the kitchen.

Sam looked at Dean from beneath lowered eyelashes. "Sounds like we've got a bonafide haunt."

"Yeah, so Jackson killed his old lady and hid her body somewhere. But how do we find her? And what's with the immolation? Doesn't seem to match any spook M.O. that I've ever seen." Dean grabbed Sam's pen and doodled some notes on the margin of a newspaper.

"Maybe it has something to do with the way he killed her," Sam shrugged.

"As long as it's not another Spring-Heeled Jack," grunted Dean. "If it is, you're on your own."

"No, it doesn't fit the pattern. Jacks only kill young women."

"It tried to kill _me,_" Dean replied indignantly.

"That's what I said." Sam couldn't swallow a grin at his jibe, and let out a little laugh as he stole some chicken from Dean's plate. Dean just stared at him, a frown wrinkling the skin between his eyebrows, but he didn't reply.

They ate silently for a few minutes, listening to the sizzle of the woks in the kitchen and the musical Cantonese conversation of the chefs. Then Sam, against his better judgment, laid down his fork and spoke. "Hey, Dean, can I ask you something?" Dean only chewed a little louder in reply, his attention on his food. "Did you mean what you said in the hospital? About not wanting to do this anymore?"

Dean didn't look up. "Sam, I've been shot, stabbed, electrocuted, burned with a hot poker, and smashed up in a car crash. I've had more concussions than you've had sex partners. Although I guess that's not saying much." He spooned up a mouthful of egg drop soup. "How could I give up all that glamour?"

Sam let out a little 'argh' noise, and picked up his fork to jab violently at some broccoli. "You're a dick."

"Yep." Dean slurped another spoonful of soup. "So we'll head over to the house after midnight, just check the place out. We'll load up with rock-salt rounds and some silver bullets. Some holy water, just in case. That should do for a quick recon. Then tomorrow we'll do some legwork on ol' Jackson and Molly."

Sam nodded wordlessly, turning his eyes to his own meal, steaming inside at his stubborn asshole of a brother. Always strong, never wavering, never admitting weakness. The Winchester Way. What a crock of shit. Sometimes he just wanted to throttle Dean for being so controlled, but God knew, Dean had been molded and shaped by their father. John had spent Dean's entire life training him, indoctrinating him, building him into the perfect soldier. And that made Sam even angrier, thinking of all the things that Dean had missed out on because he was so busy being the Terminator.

"Stop brooding, Francis," ordered Dean, chucking a piece of carrot at Sam. "Get your mind on the job."

Always the job. That's the Winchester Way.


	3. Chapter 3

**Things are speeding up a bit, now...they always seem to go more quickly when I'm tormenting the boys or threatening them with imminent harm. Which is disturbing. Okay, well, please review, and head to my website if you get a chance. Thanks to all who have reviewed thusfar.**

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Darkness came quickly to the little town, the streetlights flickering on with buzzing hums and attracting what seemed like every moth in the county. Sam and Dean headed back to the motel to bide their time until it seemed quiet enough to head to the Santirelli house. Sam gave in to the itch of his stubble and took a quick, steaming hot shower, hoping that the heat would kill any dangerous flora or fauna that may be lurking in the rust-ringed bathtub.

Though Sam protested mightily, Dean insisted on talking to Mandi to see if she knew anything about Jackson and Molly Santirelli. She was, however, particularly unhelpful, choosing instead to run her pink tongue hungrily over her lips and proclaim that she was only 12 when the Santirellis lived in the house, and didn't know anything about them. She did make sure to point out that she was legal now, though, all the while peering at Sam through lowered eyelashes. She managed to redeem herself a little bit by sketching out a detailed map to the house, with little hearts dotting the 'i's in 'Santirelli'.

The car ride was mostly silent, with Sam giving pissy one-word answers to Dean's questions, which only served to amuse Dean more. As they pulled up the cobbled driveway toward the Santirelli house, Dean cut the headlights and stared out the windshield. "Looks like the cops are gone," he commented. Sam replied with a grunt, and Dean gave a low laugh as he stepped from the car, then immediately headed for cover as a truck sped by on the street.

The only sound was the distant roar of waves on the shore of Lake Michigan. Sam crouched low, surveying the vast lawn in front of him, watching for movement. He could barely see Dean about 100 yards ahead, hidden amid some shrubbery, scanning the house like a revolving radar.

The house was huge, a three-story gothic structure with a large gabled porch surrounding the entire perimeter. There was a huge spire grazing the sky on the west side of the house, overshadowing a rooftop garden that was hemmed in by balustrades. All the windows were dark, shaded by heavy draperies like closed eyelids.

Sam duck walked toward Dean, keeping low to remain hidden behind the hedge. Dean wordlessly jerked his chin toward the house and began loping forward. Sam noted with a bit of concern that his brother had developed a slight limp, but put it out of his mind and followed close on Dean's heels to the front door.

Dean knelt on the varnished wood of the front porch and produced a lock-pick kit from the pocket of his jacket. A few practiced flicks of his wrist, and the heavy door swung open. Still crouched on one knee, Dean tilted his head to make sure the entryway was clear, then gestured Sam in.

Sam, shotgun at the ready, dodged into the hallway and covered until Dean slipped inside and pulled the door shut. After thirty seconds of standing stock still, watching and listening, they both lowered their weapons and turned on the flashlights. Sam played his beam of light over the walls, eyebrows rising at the sight of the rich silk wallpaper and the vintage gaslights on the wall. All along the hall were old portraits in heavy gilded frames, ancient faces peering out of a sepia world.

"Home sweet home," muttered Dean, his own flashlight illuminating another portrait. "Come on." They crept into the main sitting room, keeping their lights away from the windows. There were still smudges of graphite dust on the walls and windowsills from the police fingerprinting, and the thick, plush carpet was trampled down by a myriad of boot prints. "Nice of the cops to clean up after themselves."

"Let's find the bedroom," Sam whispered, pointing his flashlight toward the stairs. Dean nodded and gestured down another hallway, and they went their separate ways.

Sam climbed the creaky wooden stairs, eyes scanning for anything unusual, but there were only more gilded portrait frames. Upon reaching the head of the stairs he found wide open landing that funneled into a long hallway with wood paneling, stretching down into darkness. "Why can't it ever be haunted studio apartments?" he muttered to himself, taking in the numerous rooms spreading off the hallway. He set off, pointing his flashlight into each room as he passed it.

Luckily, it only took a minute or two to find the room where Keith had died. The smell alone was enough to lead Sam right to it, and he pressed the arm of his jacket to his nose to filter it out. With his other hand he pulled out his EMF meter and switched it on. The needle twitched once, but the lights across the top stayed dark.

The room was large, with a vaulted ceiling, and a sitting room and bath on the north side. French doors opened out onto a balcony which Sam was sure overlooked the lake, though it was too dark to see. In the center of the room was a high king-sized bed, looking almost like an altar in the shadowy darkness. Sam stepped closer and could see the tattered, charred remains of the mattress, with the eerie outline of a human form in the center. Sam lifted the EMF meter and waved it over the bed once. Nothing. He made a quick run of the room's perimeter, but the meter remained dark. He sniffed once or twice, trying to detect sulfur, but could smell only the lingering scent of burnt flesh.

Sam went back to the head of the stairs, calling quietly for his brother. Dean appeared through a pair of swinging doors, his own meter in hand. "Got something?" he asked, limping up the stairs until he was at Sam's side.

"I found the room where Keith died. No EMF, no signs of demonic activity that I could see. Come take a look, tell me what you think." Then Sam stopped short. He lifted his head slightly and inhaled, testing the air. "Do you smell that?" he whispered. Dean took a few tentative sniffs of his own.

"Smoke. Probably left from when Johnny Storm flamed on."

"No. It's fresh." Sam pointed his light toward upward. "Holy shit." His flashlight beam illuminated a gray haze that was rolling slowly across the ceiling toward them.

"That can't be good." Dean's gun came up, and he began to scan the hallway, gimlet-eyed, waiting for danger. The smoke thickened, roiling and swirling like a hurricane. As it did there came a low roaring sound, a crackling, deep-throated rumble that resonated in their chests. "Time to go, Sammy," Dean barked, shouldering his shotgun and holding it at the ready, though not sure what good it would do.

Sam started back down the stairs, stumbling on his own feet. Visibility had almost instantly dropped to near zero as the smoke rolled down along the walls toward the floor like a thick fog. Instinctively, Sam took a deep breath to run for the door, but the acrid smoke filled his mouth and lungs, burning and tearing at his chest. He let out an explosive cough and groped blindly forward, desperate for oxygen. He missed a step and tumbled forward, arms pin wheeling, and after a terrifying moment of free-fall he felt a sharp pain in his wrist as he landed at the bottom of the stairs. He crawled blindly through the smoke-filled sitting room and out the front door onto the porch. He pulled himself to his feet and staggered down into the grass, gasping and gagging, inhaling the cool night air like a drowning man.

He turned back toward the house, eyes burning and tearing from the smoke. There was no sign of Dean, not even the beam of his flashlight. "Dean!" called Sam, his voice throaty from the smoke. There was no answer. Fear panged in Sam's chest and he began to limp back toward the house, heart racing. "Dean!"


	4. Chapter 4

**All right, on we go. Please review, then head to my website to see my answers to all reviews. As always, the boys don't belong to me, though Mandi does. Aren't ya jealous?**

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"Dean!" Sam started to stumble back toward the house, eyes still stinging from the smoke. But before he could get far, he caught sight of movement in the front hallway. Seconds later, Dean practically exploded out of the door, hacking loudly, and fell off the porch into the grass.

Sam ran forward and skidded to a stop at Dean's side, dropping to his knees. "You okay?" he croaked, his throat raw and painful as he spoke.

Dean just held up a wait-a-minute hand and continued barking deep coughs as smoke wafted off his coat. Finally he caught his breath and turned his face toward Sam, eyes streaming. "Dude, I think I coughed up my spleen," he rasped.

Sam laid his hand on Dean's back as his brother began to cough again, clutching his abdomen with one hand. Sam looked back toward the house and his eyebrows shot toward his hairline as he realized that there was not a trace of smoke in the entryway. There wasn't even a lingering odor on the air. He let out a little whistle through his teeth, shaking his head. "What the hell was that?"

"Well, it's no jack, that's for sure," replied Dean, wincing as he straightened his back and stood up.

"What took you so long, anyway?" asked Sam, his hand still on Dean's back. Dean gave him a pointed look, and he removed the offending appendage, shrugging an apology. "I almost went in after you."

Dean staggered to his feet, and then reached into his pocket and pulled out a small digital voice recorder. "Wanted to see if I could get any EVP. Could clue us in on what we're dealing with." With a jerk of his head, he walked back toward the car, ignoring the fact that the door of the house was standing open. Sam grumbled as he hopped onto the porch to pull the door shut, then jogged to catch up with Dean. He noticed with a certain detachment that a large knot was swelling on his wrist, pulsing an ache up his arm.

Dean made the drive back to the motel at warp-speed, ignoring Sam's occasional hisses of terror at close calls. He screeched into a parking space in front of their door, but sat for a long moment in the driver's seat, just breathing, hand still on his stomach. "Fucking ghosts, man," he muttered, and heaved himself out of the car. Sam followed, cradling his wrist to his own abdomen.

As Sam walked into the room, he flinched as Dean's recorder came flying toward his face. He dodged, not bothering to try to catch it, and it clattered against the doorframe. "Nice hands, Sammy," snarked Dean, but then he noticed the swelling on Sam's wrist. "What happened to you?" He snapped into big brother mode, immediately crossing the room to take Sam's hand and inspect the injury gently. The wrist had swollen grossly, an ugly mass stretching the skin tight.

"Fell down the stairs." Sam ignored Dean's snort of laughter. "It'll be fine, just needs some ice." He shoved Dean aside and plopped to a seat at the chipped lacquer table, opening his laptop. He waggled his good hand at Dean, who picked up the recorder and dropped it on the table, then walked away. Sam plugged it into his computer with a USB cable and set to work on what Dean had recorded.

He played it through once, listening again to the low roaring sound of the smoke, and to Dean coughing violently. He faintly heard his own voice calling Dean's name, then a loud scratching thud, which must have been Dean falling off the porch. Then silence. Sam opened his Acoustica program and uploaded the clip. He then fiddled with the levels, toning down the static, amplifying the soundtrack, and slowing the speed until a quiet, whispery voice came through clearly.

"_How could you?"_

Sam replayed it a few times to make sure he heard it clearly. He nearly jumped out of his skin when a washcloth full of ice was dropped unceremoniously in his lap. "Ice that wrist," grunted Dean, leaning over his shoulder to stare at the computer. "You got anything?"

Sam nodded and replayed the clip again. Dean's brow furrowed and he squinted at the screen. "Well, that fits with the idea that old Jackson offed Molly, especially if Keith was beating up on his old lady. There's motive. But why immolation?" Sam nodded again, gingerly placing the icepack on his wrist. He couldn't suppress a hiss of pain, though, which prompted Dean to kneel at his side and grasp him by the arm, pulling closer to inspect the damage.

Dean gently placed his fingers against Sam's wrist, touching the pulse, assessing the circulation to the fingers. He then softly palpated the swelling. He gave a sympathetic grimace. "Looks like it's dislocated, dude. This is gonna suck."

Sam looked away. "Just do it."

Dean braced his shoulder against Sam's knee, grasping Sam's hand with both of his own. He took a quiet breath, then jerked hard, rotating the palm toward the ceiling. A loud, clicking pop, along with a groan of pain from Sam, signaled success. "You okay?" Dean gently flexed the wrist, checking for range of movement, and then placed the icepack in Sam's hand. "Keep ice on it. I'll get you some aspirin.

Sam pulled his arm to his chest, cradling the injured wrist. "Fucking stairs, man."

"Hey, don't blame the house. Just 'cause you're clumsy," replied Dean from the bathroom. He emerged with an aspirin bottle and shook several pills into Sam's hand. "We'll have to sling this up, you know."

Sam nodded, swallowing his pills dry. "So I guess it's safe to assume that this is Molly's ghost we're dealing with. But if she vanished, how are we supposed to find and burn her?" he asked. Dean stepped behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. Sam crooked his elbow and laid the palm of his injured hand on his chest, and Dean quickly tied a sling around Sam's shoulder and tucked the wrist in.

"Obviously checking the house and grounds is first priority. If he killed her, chances are she's still there somewhere. Doubtful that he schlepped her body off the property."

"So we have to go back." Sam's voice held a note of resignation.

"Yeah. But we're going back prepared this time." Dean clapped Sam on the shoulder once. "She won't catch us short again."

A knock at the door sent them both into high alert. Dean skulked sideways to the door, and Sam moved to the side of the bed, picking up one of Dean's handguns and concealing it behind his leg. Dean glanced at him, confirming his readiness, and then opened the door.

Then he laughed. Behind the door stood Mandi, a large book in her arms, a hopeful look on her face. "Hey," she greeted. "I brought you something." But then she caught sight of Sam's sling and her eyes widened. "Oh my gawd, what happened?" she cried, shoving past Dean and into the room. Luckily, Sam had the presence of mind to drop the gun and nudge it under the bed with his foot before she reached him.

"I just fell," Sam said evasively, stepping backward from her before she could grab the injured limb. "You said you brought us something?"

"Oh yeah." She plopped to a seat on the bed and opened the book in her lap. "My mom is a bit of a local history buff. I remembered that she had an old book about all the old-timey houses in the area, and the Santirelli house was in it. I thought it might help."

Dean shot Sam an impressed look and sat down next to Mandi on the bed. "That's great, Mandi, thank you." He leaned in as she flipped through the pages of the book.

"There," she said triumphantly, pointing with a peeling fingernail. "There's photos of the great room, the bedrooms, the grounds, everything."

"You're the best," proclaimed Dean, gently removing the book from her lap. She seemed not to hear him, instead looking at Sam with eyes that were almost pleading.

"Yeah, Mandi, that's awesome. Thank you." Sam smiled at Mandi and her eyes lit up, and a genuine smile crossed her own face. "Can I ask you one more thing, though?"

"Anything."

"Can you point us to the local fire department?"

Mandi pushed out her lower lip in a confused fashion. "A couple of blocks from here. Why?"

"No reason. Just thought we could talk to some of the firemen who responded to the fire." Dean patted Mandi on the knee. "We're gonna turn in, okay? But thank you. Really." Mandi stood and smiled at Dean, made eyes at Sam for a second, then walked out of the room, twitching her hips in an exaggerated manner, which Sam supposed was intended to be sexy.

"Even ugly people need love, Sammy." Dean ducked as a washcloth full of ice whizzed by his head.


	5. Chapter 5

**She's baaaaaaack. Ugh, so sorry for the long delay. Life can be a right bitch, no? Thanks for your patience, ya'll. Please review.**

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It had taken very little effort to procure (read steal) a pair of oxygen tanks and masks from the local fire department. Most of the firemen had been lounging on the front lawn in folding chairs, feet up on milk crates, watching the stars. Sam had easily settled in with them, plying them for stories of the fire at the Santirelli house; just basically doing what he did best. Distracting.

"I love small-town naiveté," crowed Dean as they pulled up in front of the Santirelli house. "Operation Distract'n'Grab is a success," he proclaimed, choosing not to see Sam's eye-roll and hauling himself out of the car. He grunted a little as he lifted the oxygen rigs out of the Impala's trunk, but ignored Sam's look of concern. "Don't even think about it, Cinderella," he warned. Sam, in turn, ignored his warning.

"What's wrong?"

"Dude. I got stabbed two weeks ago. Give me a break, huh?" He began jogging toward the house, ignoring the little blazes of pain from his knife wound as it protested the weight of his load. He began to limp a little to lessen the pain, and made it to the porch in a few strides.

Sam was close behind, clutching the shotgun in his good hand. "So what's the plan?"

"We'll check the house first. If we can't find any sign of her, we'll have to check the grounds." Dean reached into his duffel bag and pulled out Mandi's book. "Did you see anything in here that looks promising?" Sam shook his head, so Dean opened the book and flipped through the pages while Sam kept an eye on the street for passing cars.

"Hey." The tone in Dean's voice drew Sam's eyes to the book. "Do you remember seeing a fireplace in the master suite? Where Kevin died?"

"No."

Dean handed the book to Sam, tapping his index finger against one of the pages. "Holy shit," breathed Sam. There, in the photo, was a huge brick fireplace against the southern wall of the room. "He sealed her in."

"It makes sense. He offs her, then jams her corpse up the chimney and covers it over. At least I hope she was dead first. Explains the smoke and fire, and why nobody ever found her." Dean grinned. "God, I'm good at my job." Then his glee dimmed. "Should've stolen an axe, I guess."

"There's a hatchet in the trunk," offered Sam, and jogged back to the Impala to retrieve it. By the time he returned, Dean had already donned one of the oxygen tanks and was standing with the mask hanging loose around his neck.

Dean knelt and picked up the other oxygen rig. "Gonna have to lose the sling, dude. Think you can manage it?" Sam nodded wordlessly, suppressing a wince as he slid his arm out of the sling and let Dean strap him into the harness for the oxygen tank. Dean gave him a firm yet gentle pat on the cheek. "Ready?" Sam only nodded again, taking a deep breath before bending to pick the lock and shoulder open the door.

The brothers wasted no time dashing up the stairs to the master bedroom, huffing beneath their heavy loads. Dean skidded to a halt along the south wall, tossed his glock to Sam, and began rapping the blunt end of the hatchet against the drywall. "Got it," he barked, voice muffled by the oxygen mask obscuring his face. He gave an involuntary yelp of pain as he hefted the hatchet over his head and dropped it in a powerful swing at the wall.

The split second the blade met the wall, all hell broke loose.

Sam could only let out a strangled, muffled cry as he felt a powerful blow against the side of his head. The straps of his oxygen mask snapped, delivering stinging slaps to his cheeks. He stumbled backward, caromed off the side of the bed and landed in an awkward heap on the floor. The back of his skull cracked against the hard wood and stars twirled across his vision.

When the stars faded to flashing pinpoints, the hair on Sam's neck stood on end, for directly in front of his face was the decomposing visage of a woman. Her blazing eyes were sunk deep in their sockets, and her mouth was a gaping, toothless maw. A cobweb of lanky hair was draped across her shoulder and tickled Sam's face. He started to scream for Dean, but as he did the dead woman stiffened as if drawing a deep breath, then dark, choking smoke poured from her mouth. Sam tried to turn his face away, but she grasped his cheeks with her cold hands, brown and ragged fingernails tearing at his skin, and then she pressed her open mouth against his own.

Sam gave a panicked hiccup, trying to force away her loathsome touch, but instead only filled his lungs with thick, greasy smoke. He gagged and choked against the intrusion, supremely aware of his body shrieking for oxygen. In the background he could vaguely hear the crashing of Dean's hatchet, and his brother's frantic grunts as he rained blow after blow against the wall.

Dean had his own fish to fry, after all. All his years of hunting told him instinctively that trying to take this ghostly bitch on one to one was useless. The only way he could save Sam was salt and fire.

Ignoring the pain that tore across his midriff with every swing, he hefted the hatchet over his head again and again. Finally, the plaster crumbled away, revealing a dark, sooty hearth. Dean dropped to his knees and scrambled in, reaching overhead and praying desperately for help, for divine intervention, for some freak miracle. Anything.

He stretched upward, fingers clawing desperately into the darkness of the chimney, scrabbling against brick and busting open every single knuckle. Then he suddenly brushed against soft cloth. With a near-scream, Dean lurched upward, jamming his shoulders against the brick, and yanked.

The corpse dropped with startling swiftness, landing sprawled atop Dean. He couldn't help but retch as he yanked the dead woman out of the fireplace, her arms flopping against his face. He shoved her away and fumbled in his coat for his salvation: a small box of coarse salt, a bottle of lighter fluid, and his trusty, though well-dented, Zippo. With quick, practiced movements he spread salt with one hand and sprayed lighter fluid with the other. Then flame, precious, beautiful fire.

Sam's vision had begun to fade, dimming with every second that passed, until all he could see were the hateful eyes of the ghost atop him. But then, with a suddenness that startled him, her eyes changed. They went from murderous rage to terrified realization as a bright glow seemed to envelop her face, burning and licking outward until every inch of her skin was nothing but blazing light. She arched backward, hands flailing, mouth gaping, then with a soundless scream she burst into oblivion, leaving behind only the stink of burning flesh and hair.

Sam let out an explosive cough that threatened to burst his guts open. Eyes streaming, he rolled onto his side, hacking out all the choking smoke. He turned his face upward as he felt a warm hand on his shoulder, and found Dean staring down at him.

Dean's green eyes looked him over once or twice, searching for blood or injury, then his muffled voice drifted from behind his oxygen mask.

"Nobody fucks with my brother."


	6. Chapter 6

**Sorry for the wait on the update. This is a short wrap-up chapter, sorry for that too. Am so glad the new season has started so as to poke the muse with new ideas. Thanks for the reviews, and I hope to be back soon with new stuff. **

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Sam tried not to lean too heavily on Dean as they dragged themselves back to the Impala. His eyes and throat were still burning from the acrid smoke and he could still taste her soot and decay in his mouth, but he couldn't remember the night air ever smelling so sweet. Dean yanked open the passenger side door of the car and eased Sam to a seat on the cool leather, then knelt to catch Sam's eye.

"You okay, bro?" Dean's voice was rough, not with smoke but with that gruff, I'm-your-brother-so-I-have-to-care-but-don't-make-a-big-deal-out-of-it sound it always had when he worried for Sam.

"Fantastic," rasped Sam, reaching into the backseat and grabbing a half-full bottle of water to rinse his mouth. "My lungs are like prunes now."

Dean barked a strangled laugh and reached up to grasp a lank of Sam's hair. "She singed your mane. Gonna have to buzz that off. Or at least give it a hot oil treatment." Sam slapped his hand away and Dean laughed again, and then gave an exaggerated sigh. "Remind me again why we keep doing this?"

"Family business," grumbled Sam. Dean groaned as he stood up and loped over to the other side of the car. Sam leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes, mouth twisting against the sudden pressure of tears. _What has the family business ever brought us but pain and death?_ _Mom. Dad. Countless hunters in between. And now death was stalking Dean, ticking off the days until it could drag his soul down to hell, until it could make him pay for all the trouble he had caused. Why do we keep doing it?_

"Don't start, Sam." Dean's voice startled Sam, who realized that he was on the verge of sleep as he sat there.

"Start what?"

"Brooding. Job's done. Time to move on."

"To what?" Sam tried to keep the anger, the sadness, out of his voice, but didn't succeed.

"To the next job." Dean's reply was firm, low. Determined.

"Why?"

"Can we not have this discussion again?" Dean turned the ignition key with a jerk and the engine roared to life as though grumbling at his rough treatment. "We've been through it a million times, not even two weeks ago at the hospital. I'm sick of talking about it."

"Dean…"

"Sam, do you really think I want to spend the rest of my limited life fighting with you? Better yet, fighting over something we don't have a chance in hell of changing?"

"You don't know that. You promised we would try." Sam wanted more than anything to grab Dean by the lapels of his coat and shake him into submission, but suddenly that desire was squashed by the overwhelming need to hug his brother. A new sheen of tears slicked across his eyes and he bit down his next words. After a long and pregnant pause, he shook his head and murmured, "Okay."

Dean regarded him silently for a moment, his hazel gaze burning into Sam's consciousness. "Okay." The word was gentle, even a bit thankful.

Before Sam could reply, the shrill chirp of Sam's cell phone broke the stillness. He picked it up and glanced at the caller ID. "Goddammit Dean," he barked, and Dean couldn't suppress a grin, for in bright neon was flashing a name.

_Mandi._


End file.
